One Thing Right
by stranded chess piece
Summary: Bravo is stranded after an op, Clay has a headache, and Sonny has a rift to fix.


**So this story came about from a mish-mash of two random things: my son listening to 'One Thing Right' by Marshmello and Kane Brown on repeat, and an idea from one of my favourite H50 episodes (5x17). I couldn't help but think of Clay and Sonny, and their bromance. So as usual, I don't own them. And all mistakes are 1000% mine. Thanks for reading :)**

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Clay tried not to wince as Trent pulled the last stitch closed on the gash above his right eyebrow. He let his eyes close briefly.

"Doing okay?" Trent's tone held a hint of concern.

Clay forced his eyes open, waved a hand in an attempt at reassurance. Fucking fantastic. Never better.

Trent's lips pursed. He clipped the thread. The needle was exchanged for a strip of tape, which he gently stuck down over his handiwork. "No picking at it."

Clay rolled his eyes.

"I will put a cone around your head." Trent's tone was serious.

Jason approached, huffing a laugh at the medic's last comment. He reached down and tilted Clay's chin up, eyeing the wound. The humor fell from his face. "Should've decked the guy when I had the chance," he muttered.

"You split his lip," Trent supplied.

Jason released Clay's chin. "His face collided with the ground."

Trent quirked a half-smile. "Because your boot collided with his foot."

Jason didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward.

Clay leaned forward on the upturned crate he was using as a seat, massaged his throbbing temples. It had been a long-ass day. He just wanted to go home.

They were on the tarmac at the Navy base in San Diego, their gear piled and packed around them. The had successfully completed their mission across the border in Mexico; going in quietly by truck and then by foot, retrieving their target – who turned out to be an obnoxious asshole who had managed to punch Clay in the face whilst trying to make a break for it, causing him to smack his head on a door frame - and then taking a helo from exfil back to the base, where they were supposed to be handing off their HVT and heading straight home. However …

Their trusty C-17 was experiencing a minor mechanical issue. So instead, they appeared to be going absolutely nowhere.

Which made Clay's head pound even harder.

Trent nudged his knee, holding out a couple of painkillers and a bottle of water.

Clay raised a tired brow, staring blankly at the offering.

"Would you rather a suppository?" Bravo Four's expression was unflinching.

Clay blew out a slow breath. No, no he wouldn't. Begrudgingly he took the pills.

Both Jason and Trent watched him swallow.

"Thanks Mom and Dad," Clay muttered under his breath.

Jason ruffled his hair. "Atta boy."

Clay blinked against the end of day glare. The air was hot, like a blow heater, even though it was nearing four PM. Normally they didn't conduct operations during the daylight, but they'd only had a small window of opportunity on this one, so they'd taken it - risks and all. Thankfully it had paid off. The only casualty had been Clay's head – and a portion of his ego.

Casting a look around, Clay observed the rest of Bravo lingering, doing their best not to let their frustration bubble up and over. Brock was throwing a ball for Cerb; Sonny was seated on the ground, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back against another crate with his eyes presumably closed behind his sunglasses; and Ray was deep in conversation with Vic, both of their brows furrowed as if in deep thought, probably pondering life and the meaning of the universe.

Clay's gaze wandered back to Sonny. Ever since Rebecca had come along, Sonny had been giving him the cold shoulder. The Texan had traded his best friend for their new rookie, without so much as a backwards glance. Clay had shaken it off at first, had tried not to let it get to him. But as the weeks had gone by, the sting had become too persistent to ignore - so much so that even Rebecca had noticed.

Clay felt a weight in his stomach, a slight lump in his throat.

She'd fallen in love with a version of him, and he'd fallen short.

Rebecca had encouraged him to question how he could make more of a difference in the world. She'd been a beacon, drawing him away from Bravo and his life within the teams. He'd been lured by curiosity, and had tagged along to a few of her political functions. He'd caught a glimpse of what his life could be like off the battlefield.

And it hadn't felt right.

Despite the temptation, politics had fit him like a badly cut suit – tight in places, loose in others.

Unnatural.

He'd realized that he was already making a difference in the world, and that his job mattered - even if there was little recognition in it.

His place was, and always would be, alongside his brothers.

Unfortunately, Rebecca hadn't quite seen it that way. She'd told him that she felt they were on two different paths, running alongside each other, but never destined to join. They lived in two different worlds. _Too different_ _worlds_. If he saw a future with his team, then unfortunately, she couldn't see a future with him.

And there it was - Stella, all over again. Another person exiting his life.

Just like his mother.

His father.

His grandparents.

Brian.

Adam.

Clay's weary gaze skipped across the sun-scorched tarmac, landing once again on Bravo Three.

And Sonny.

The nuisance lump wouldn't budge from his throat, no matter how hard he tried to swallow it down. Drawing a shaky breath, Clay dropped his gaze to his boots, before closing his eyes and feeling the sting of hot tears against his lashes. Hastily, he blinked them away.

Now wasn't the time for a pity party. That could wait until he was home and finally alone once again.

Trent had just finished packing away the rest of his med kit. His eyes kept darting to Clay, but whether he noticed the emotion simmering beneath the surface of the younger man's barely held-together mask, he didn't comment.

Thankfully Blackburn and Davis appeared, and Clay welcomed the distraction.

"Alright, listen up," Blackburn said, clapping his hands to grab everyone's attention.

The rest of the guys gathered around, looking hopeful.

Blackburn waited a beat, but Clay could already tell by Davis' expression that they weren't going home. He let his head drop, feeling even more tired than before.

"The bad news," Blackburn stated, apologetically, "is that we're not cleared for take-off, due to the mechanical issue."

A synchronized groan and curse rippled through the group.

"It's being worked on as we speak," the commander assured, ignoring the complaints. "And we should be on our way by midday tomorrow."

More groans and curses.

Clay let out a slow breath.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"But -" Blackburn's lips tugged into a slight smile, and he darted a glance at Davis, who smiled back. "I have some good news."

The frustrated muttering petered out.

"I called in a favor from a friend of mine, who has a place at Mission Beach," Blackburn explained. "A beach house, big enough for all of us. He's happy for us to use it for the night."

Brows were raised – some curious, other skeptical.

Davis' smile widened. "There'll be pizza," she offered. "And beer."

The bad mood slowly began to dissolve around them.

Sonny crossed his arms over his chest. "Pizza and beer, you say?"

She nodded.

"A beach house, as in, where people go on vacation?" Jason's brow creased, as if the thought of a vacation was a foreign concept.

Blackburn allowed a small laugh. "Correct," he replied. "Today was a success. The Higher Up's are happy."

"We may as well celebrate," Davis said, still grinning.

Jason rubbed at his stubble-covered chin, glanced around at the rest of the guys. "What's the catch?" His tone was hesitant.

Blackburn shook his head. "No catch," he stated genuinely. "You boys did good today. If we're stuck here for the night, I figured we may as well make the most of it."

Sonny blew out a low whistle. Popped a toothpick in his mouth and grinned around it. "Hell, I'm in," he announced, reaching for his pack. "I'm starving."

The others added their agreement, smiling and moving to scoop up their respective gear.

Clay was the only one who didn't seem thrilled by the idea. Slowly, he pushed up from the crate, head still throbbing.

A few feet to his right, Sonny and Brock launched into a spirited argument about whether pineapple belonged on a pizza. Normally Clay would have joined in, but today he put his back to them, leaning down to grab his pack.

Trent was hovering, watching him like a hawk. "You good?" the medic asked, twisting the cap off a water bottle and taking a sip.

Clay pulled himself straighter. No, no he wasn't. But Trent couldn't help with that. "I'm fine," he lied.

"Headache any worse?" Trent's eyes narrowed, as if he could see inside Clay's head and find the answer.

Clay nodded, then changed his mind, shook his head instead. Absently went to trace a finger along the line of stitches above his brow.

Trent tsk'd and swatted his hand away. "I meant what I said about the cone," he threatened. "Brock keeps a collapsible one for Cerb in his pack. Don't make me ask for it."

Clay huffed, resisted the urge to argue back. But he was too tired for comebacks.

Trent noticed his silence and seemed more troubled because of it. He checked Clay's eyes once again, peering into each one annoyingly.

Clay shook him off.

"You tell me if you feel dizzy or nauseous, okay?" the older man said.

Clay nodded. Trent was dangerously close to crossing over from medic to mother hen. He loved his brothers, but God they could be smothering sometimes.

"Van's this way," Blackburn motioned, leading them across the tarmac.

Brock and Sonny were still arguing about pineapple. Jason had fallen into step beside Ray and Vic. Trent brought up the rear with Clay, continuing to keep a close eye on him.

Clay's gaze snagged on Sonny.

The Texan had been unusually quiet this mission, easing back with his newly-acquired attitude towards Clay. Clay wasn't exactly sure what had sparked the change, but he was grateful. Their usual banter was still AWOL, but at least the silence was better than the constant jokes and jibes that had been wearing him down.

While they'd been in Mexico, Clay had caught Sonny glancing at him every now and then, as if he'd wanted to say something. But the opportunities had slipped by without either of them starting a conversation. And since Clay had cracked his head open, he wasn't in the mood to chat with anyone.

As if feeling Clay's gaze upon his back, Sonny cast a half-glance over his shoulder, eyes catching Clay's briefly, his expression unreadable.

Clay let his eyes fall to the tarmac, drawing a steadying breath against the constant drumming in his skull. If he wasn't so damn hungry, he would put himself straight to bed once they got to their accommodation. He was in no mood for a party, and it wasn't like he could drink with the painkillers Trent had given him anyway.

Around him, his brothers buzzed with chatter, looking forward to a nice night.

Clay sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

It was slightly cooler by the time they arrived at the beach house. Salty sea air tingled Clay's nostrils as he climbed out of the van. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he paused to stare at the looming structure.

Around him, his team mates let out low whistles as they also surveyed the building.

They had parked on the street at the front of the house. The back faced the ocean, separated from the sand by only a bike path. It was double story, block-like with sharp angles, and wrapped with floor to ceiling tinted windows.

Blackburn punched a code into a keypad by a tall metal gate, and the gate buzzed and clicked open. "Gentlemen," he smiled, removing his sunglasses and ushering them in. "And lady," he amended quickly, glancing at Davis.

Clay hung back, the last to shuffle through the gate into the courtyard beyond. For a moment, he thought back to his grandparents' modest house in Liberia, full of drafts and creaking floorboards – a stark contrast to the building before him.

He blinked at the towering double front doors, heavy timber carved with intricate designs. Some people had more money than sense, he thought bitterly. If he had spare change, he sure as hell wouldn't spend it on a ridiculously huge house like this. Especially if it was only going to be casually lived in.

Jason paused in the foyer, glancing at Blackburn. "Your friend must've owed you a pretty hefty favor."

Blackburn twitched a smile, shrugged as he moved further into the room. "I wouldn't say this makes us even. My buddy still owes me, as far as I'm concerned."

Clay followed the others through the grand entry and straight up a set of stairs to the second level, which boasted a huge open plan living area and shiny kitchen. Folding doors led onto a wide balcony, which overlooked a large private courtyard with a fire pit at its centre. Beyond the courtyard, was the beach.

"Bedrooms are all back downstairs," Blackburn announced. "Davis and I get our own rooms. You lot can argue over the other three."

Clay dropped his pack onto the large L-shaped leather couch, half listening - less than half caring. He'd slept in the dirt on more than one occasion. He wasn't fussed over which bed ended up being his.

His gaze snagged on an acoustic guitar propped on a stand by the oversized television. He let his eyes linger, pushed back the sudden bubble of emotions that rose within him as he felt his fingertips tingle with the urge to dance across its strings.

"Grab a shower," Blackburn advised, "make yourselves comfortable. Davis and I will head out to get the pizzas and beer."

Clay tore his gaze away from the guitar, listened as his brothers debated pizza toppings. He would let them sort it out. Turning a shoulder to their chattering, he made his way out to the balcony and leaned against the railing, breathing in the view.

Sunset colors splashed across the sky, catching on the sea. Gulls whirled overhead, and people were out jogging, walking dogs. A light breeze ruffled Clay's hair as he traced the horizon, feeling the day's heat dissipating around him with the dipping sun.

A nudge to his leg startled him, and he looked down to see Cerb peering up at him, tail flicking, brown eyes searching.

Clay scratched the dog's ears, offered a small smile.

Brock appeared, leaning against the railing to his left, taking in the view for a heartbeat before turning his own brown eyes upon their youngest member. "You okay?" He asked quietly, voice gentle.

Clay pushed down the emotions rolling around inside of him, plastered a poor excuse for a smile on his face.

Brock didn't buy it, but thankfully chose not to probe.

Cerb whined, licked Clay's fingers.

Clay cleared his throat, and gave their furry team mate another scratch behind the ears before drawing his hands up out of reach.

"Quite a view," Brock observed, staring towards the horizon. "Hard to believe we were being shot at only a few hours ago."

Clay huffed. Felt the gash on his forehead twinge. It most definitely was a sharp shift in gears.

"Your head okay?" Brock had noticed the slight wince.

"Fine." It was another lie – Clay's head was aching. But he didn't want any more fuss made over the fact that he'd got his bell rung by their asshole HVT.

Before Brock could question him further, Davis appeared.

She came up beside Clay, squeezing his shoulder before gently turning his face towards hers and narrowing eyes at the wound. She muttered something about wishing they'd left their HVT to the drug lords who'd been chasing him. "You okay?" She asked, concern genuine.

Clay eased away from her questioning gaze. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been asked if he was alright. It was getting harder and harder to claim that he was fine.

"Head's okay," he stated tiredly. "I've had worse." He didn't mention that beneath the surface, he felt like he was slowly unraveling.

Davis let her eyes linger on him a moment longer, before she turned her attention to Bravo Five. "Sonny tells me you have terrible taste in pizza toppings," she said, amused, "and that under no circumstances am I to listen to your requests."

Brock raised a brow, darting a glare towards Sonny who was inside, testing out the couch and looking way too comfortable.

"Ham and pineapple?" Davis asked quietly.

Brock's glare gave way to hope.

"I got your back," she winked. "Ain't nothing wrong with a bit of fruit on pizza."

Clay released a small laugh, despite his stormy mood.

Brock mouthed 'thank you', and Cerb gave a grateful tail thump.

Clay's belly growled, causing the dog's ears to twitch. The sooner he ate, the sooner he could go to bed.

The sun sagged towards the horizon, its bottom melting against the sea. Dark orange rays turned everything golden, and Clay blinked against them, feeling the last of the day's heat glittering against his lashes. Despite its warmth, it did little to lighten his heavy mood.

"Something's bothering you," Brock observed, once Davis was out of earshot.

Clay sighed internally. Brock had always been perceptive. His silence was deceiving – not much got by him.

"If you want to talk," the dog handler continued, leaning closer. "You know any one of us would be happy to listen."

Clay glanced briefly at his brother. He knew that. And he was grateful. He let his eyes skip back to the ocean, releasing a shaky breath. He didn't feel like talking. Or opening up a can of worms by admitting that Rebecca had left him. Not just yet, anyway.

Brock lingered a moment longer, before patting Clay's shoulder and whistling for Cerb to follow him back into the house.

Clay leaned more heavily against the railing, closing his eyes against the dull ache in his head, as well as the heavier ache in his heart.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

The night was balmy, and stars blinked through openings in the scattered clouds. Flames danced in the fire pit, and everyone sat around it in a circle – beers in hands, bellies full, chatting and laughing and passing around stories.

Clay sat uncomfortably on a wooden fold-out chair, staring into the glow of the fire, half listening to the chatter going on around him. His eyes were heavy, and without alcohol to keep him afloat, he was sinking rapidly.

Sonny sat across from him, and a few times Clay caught the Texan's eye. But the contact was never held. Sonny's jibes were still absent, and he had a crease between his brow like something was bothering him. If there wasn't a gaping chasm between them, Clay would have asked his brother what was wrong. But Sonny had chosen to dig the hole, and Clay didn't have the energy to build a bridge across it.

Trent had checked on their youngest team mate a couple of times, as had Jason. Brock and Cerb were simultaneously shooting him side glances, and Clay had caught both Davis and Blackburn also keeping tabs.

It's just a bang on the head for fuck's sake, he'd thought irritably.

Or perhaps they could sense the dark clouds hanging about him. He wasn't doing the greatest job of masking his current emotional state. Normally, his poker face was infallible, but right now he was just too damn tired to hold the facade.

Drawing a steadying breath, he cleared his throat and pushed up from the seat, feeling the weight of more than one set of eyes tracking his movements.

"I'm, uh, gonna head inside," he offered quietly. "Gonna take some more pills, get an early night." He patted Trent's shoulder as he passed by, silently reassuring the medic that all was well.

"You're not feeling nauseous?" Trent questioned suspiciously, grabbing Clay's elbow to stall him. "Dizzy?"

Clay shook his head, squeezed a tight smile. "Just tired. I'm good."

Trent hesitated, but eventually released his grip. "Wake me tonight if you need anything,"

Clay remembered Trent stating that he would be in the same room, to keep an eye on him. He resisted an eye roll, and settled for a muttered, "Yes, Mom," instead. Which earned him a light swat to his calf as he moved away.

Once inside, he removed his mask completely – allowing his shoulders to sag, his steps to slow. He was bone weary. And not just in a physical way.

When Stella had left him, his heartbreak had manifested as irritability and a simmering bitterness that had led him to lash out at his brothers. This time around, in the wake of Rebecca's departure, he felt a kind of shattered emptiness, a heavy weight that made him want to isolate himself.

Perhaps it was because there was a gaping hole where Sonny's friendship used to be. It felt like a double-blow. He was coming apart with no one to help him pick up the pieces.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, intending to get himself a glass of water and some pills, Clay thought about his (former?) best friend.

He was upset over Rebecca leaving him, but his brother's absence weighed on him the most.

Not that Sonny had officially broken it off with him. The Texan had simply turned his back, and had silently drifted away.

Yet it was somehow more painful than any break-up Clay had ever been through. And he wasn't quite sure how to fix it.

Stepping into the kitchen and taking a moment to lean against the marble benchtop, Clay allowed a splinter of a sad smile. Losing Sonny really did feel like the end of a relationship. Like a marriage breakdown.

He scrubbed a hand over bleary eyes, letting his fingers drift momentarily to the gash above his brow. Trent's warnings not to scratch at it echoed through his mind, and he hastily dropped his hand, glancing around as if worried that the medic would pop out from a doorway to scold him.

Sometimes Clay worried about how close he'd become to his brothers. Being close, in this line of work, was a dangerous thing. But they had filled the void left by his dysfunctional family, and despite his best efforts, Clay had welcomed their warmth with open arms.

That's why it hurt so much that Sonny had turned away. Because the Texan wasn't only his best friend, his team mate, his partner in crime – he was _family._ The big brother Clay had never known he needed. And without him, Clay was floundering.

Pouring a glass of water and popping some painkillers from the pack Trent had left on the bench for him, Clay turned to head back downstairs to bed.

But, from across the room, the guitar caught his eye once again.

Swallowing the pills, he placed the glass down and stepped over to the instrument.

The house was quiet around him, his team mates still chattering and laughing outside. He probably had fifteen or so minutes before one of them – probably Trent, or Jason – came to check on him.

He closed the distance to the guitar, hesitated, and lifted it from its stand. The weight was familiar in his hands. Letting himself plop down onto the edge of the couch, he took it into his lap and let his fingers slowly move over the strings, surprised that it was in tune.

He allowed a few quiet chords, listening as the music gently filled the room. The house had good acoustics – the furniture absorbing excess sound, preventing any echoes.

Clay paused, stilling his fingers and drawing a shaky breath. Memories rose and swirled within him. He knew that it probably wasn't wise to add them to his current emotional washing machine, but his desire to play was strong.

It had been too long.

He'd missed it.

And right now, he couldn't deny that there was something wholesome and healing in the music.

He'd been running with Bravo for about eighteen months; he'd given up playing guitar just before he'd joined them.

Perhaps, he thought, as he allowed his fingers to resume their dance over the strings, it wouldn't hurt to play. Just for a little while.

But, he was wrong. It hurt a hell of a lot. And somewhere along the way, tears began to form against his lashes, and he allowed one to burn a trail down his cheek.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Sonny was an idiot. Of that much he was sure. He'd watched Clay rise from his chair, and head back into the house, but he hadn't followed him – though his inner voice had screamed at him to get off his ass.

He'd been wanting to talk to Clay for a while now, but he just hadn't found the words. Now it looked like the kid had gone and put himself to bed, and another day would close without Sonny trying to make things right.

He took a sip of his beer. But if he was honest, he wasn't enjoying the drink tonight. It churned in his gut along with the pizza, too many emotions causing him discomfort.

Vic leaned forward on the chair to his left, angled in closer and gave him a look.

Sonny pretended not to notice.

But Vic shook his head, leaned closer to keep the words between them. "You haven't talked to Clay yet, have you?"

It wasn't really a question, not the way the younger man was asking it. Nor was it an accusation. Vic Lopez possessed the same infuriating zen that Ray carried around within him, managing to inject far too much meaning into far too few words.

Sonny didn't reply.

Vic released a slow breath.

A handful of beats passed.

"Look," Bravo Seven said eventually. "I know it's not my place to tell you what to do, but -"

"- Damn straight it isn't," Sonny interjected coolly.

Vic allowed the abrasive tone to tumble off him, like water off a duck's back. "_But_, life's too short for stubbornness, man. We, of all people, should know that." His gaze became slightly deeper, if that was even possible. "I've made that mistake before," he admitted soberly.

Sonny eyed him, allowing the words to sink in.

"Don't be too stubborn to fix a friendship."

Damn this new kid and his unwelcome tidbits of wisdom. Sonny raked his tongue over his bottom teeth, darting a glance towards the house.

Vic cleared his throat, seeming to shake away whatever memories he'd just dredged up, and nodded towards the building. "Clay's your best friend," he stated. "And ever since he met his lady, you've been acting like a jealous ex."

A low growl escaped Sonny's throat. The words stung, but not because of Vic's tone. Once again, their rookie wasn't accusing – simply observing.

The dark-haired man held Sonny's gaze for a moment, before continuing. "I wasn't going to mention it, because it's not my place, but …"

Sonny raised a brow when he didn't go on.

Vic chewed his lip.

"Spit it out, Lopez," Sonny huffed, not enjoying their conversation one bit.

Vic sighed. "Clay hasn't smelled like lavender for at least the last couple of weeks."

And there it was, the final blow.

Sonny felt his stomach sink as he considered what that meant. Had Clay and Rebecca broken up? If they had, he would feel even worse for the juvenile way in which he'd been treating his little brother. Not only had he been unsupportive of Clay's relationship in the first place, he had potentially lost the kid's trust. If Clay was hurting right now, he wouldn't know.

Abandoning the last few sips of beer, Sonny once again chastised himself for his own stupidity. Slowly, he pushed up from his seat. He'd fucked up, and it was time to mend what he'd so stupidly broken. That was, if Clay would allow him to mend it.

With his stomach in a knot, Sonny blew out an unsteady breath. He nodded to Vic. "You remind me far too much of Ray sometimes," he grumbled.

Vic seemed torn between knowing whether that was a compliment or an insult.

Sonny didn't clarify. He stepped away, catching Jason's eye. "I'm gonna take a leak. I'll check on our boy," he offered.

Jason did his best not to appear obviously relieved that someone was going to check on Clay.

Sonny noticed a few of the others mirroring the emotion.

"Make sure he took some more painkillers," Trent instructed.

Sonny gave a half-hearted salute, keeping his expression neutral. There was a good chance that Clay had gone straight to bed, and a part of him hoped that was the case. He hadn't yet worked out how he would apologize for his ridiculous behavior. But he knew that the more he delayed it, the harder it would get.

The chasm between them was his own damned fault, and it should have been filled the moment it was made.

But Sonny could be a stubborn ass sometimes. His granninny had always warned that it would be his undoing.

Squaring his shoulders, he headed back into the house, intending to go straight to Clay's room. But he stopped in his tracks just inside the doorway, ears snagging on gentle music floating down from the living area upstairs.

Real music, not a recording.

Knowing that there was no one other than Clay inside the building, Sonny stood, transfixed, mouth slightly ajar as he listened to the intricate, delicate, piece. There was something about classical guitar that had always grabbed at his soul. It was like a fine tapestry of notes being woven together in the most beautiful way.

Not many things rendered Sonny Quinn speechless.

But this moment was one of them.

Listening to their kid play, he was floored. He knew that Clay was a closet nerd, often spouting random facts, and reading more than any other person he knew. But, musical? He'd had no idea. He wondered how many other people knew of this hidden talent. Not many, he guessed.

He would have stood there forever, listening, soaking it in. But Sonny knew he'd delayed his apology far too long already.

Gathering himself, he mounted the stairs.

He had a hole to mend.

Clay didn't notice him at first when he entered the kitchen. Sonny took a moment to hang back near the stairs, watching his little brother from the shadows.

Clay was on the couch, guitar resting on his lap, eyes closed and playing effortlessly. His fingers moved across the strings in a way that seemed completely natural, and it made Sonny wonder exactly how many years ago Clay had learnt to play.

Releasing a breath, Sonny moved into the room.

Clay abruptly stopped playing, eyes snapping open as he sensed his team mate's presence.

Sonny noted that the younger man's eyes were slightly bloodshot.

Clay scrubbed the back of his wrist against them, making it difficult to tell whether the redness was from tears or fatigue.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Sonny eventually broke the silence. "Trent asked me to check if you took your meds."

Clay leaned over and placed the guitar back on its stand, sniffed. "Yep," he replied, simply.

Sonny closed a little more of the distance between the two of them. "Thought you were heading to bed."

Clay cleared his throat. Gave a slight nod. "I am." But he didn't move from the couch.

Another beat of silence lingered.

"I've known you for nearly two years," Sonny said, allowing a slight smile. "And I never knew you played music."

A flicker of a shadow passed over Clay's features. Sonny had known the kid long enough to notice splinters of emotion like that, and he immediately realized he'd hit a nerve.

"I haven't played in nearly two years," Clay replied, tone a little hollow.

Sonny hesitated a moment, before asking gently, "Why? You play like a pro. Not many people have that talent."

Clay gave a slight huff, and the shadow gracing his features softened into sadness. "You sound like him," he muttered.

Sonny furrowed a brow. "Who?"

"Brian."

Sonny's thoughts snagged on the dark-haired kid who'd gone through Green Team with Clay. Clay and Brian had been close. Best friend kind of close. _Brothers_ kind of close.

Clay shook his head, as if recalling. "He convinced me to pick up a guitar again, after years of not playing. My grandfather taught me. When I didn't, Brian bought me one for my birthday and guilted me into keeping and playing the damned thing."

Sonny mentally ran through Clay's apartment. He'd never noticed any sign of a guitar in all the times he'd been there. Perhaps Clay had stashed it away somewhere? Then it clicked. Sonny's gut clenched. "You stopped playing when Brian died," he concluded.

Clay chewed his lip, released a shaky breath. Nodded.

"What happened to your guitar?" Sonny asked, understanding now that the redness in his brother's eyes was probably from tears.

Clay's gaze was fixed on a point on the ground. "I smashed it," he admitted quietly, with a bitter laugh. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. "I couldn't bear to play it any more. Every time I did, it reminded me of that day, of the accident." Once again, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

Sonny lingered, slightly caught off guard by the fact that Clay had lowered his walls and voluntarily offered a peek behind them. Especially after the way Sonny had been treating him lately.

Clay shifted on the couch, moving to stand up. "I'm gonna go get some sleep," he stated, shaking off the conversation, and gathering himself at the seams.

Sonny stepped around the couch and gently grabbed the younger man's elbow, motioned for him to sit back down.

Clay went to pull away.

"Please?" Sonny asked softly. "I've been wanting to chat," he admitted. "But I just haven't been able to grab the right moment. I don't want to leave it any longer when it's already overdue."

From up close, Sonny could see the bruising beginning around the gash on Clay's forehead. The memory of Clay being thrown into the doorframe, and the thud of the impact, sent his knuckles tingling with the need to pound the shit out of the jackass who'd been responsible. Thankfully Jason had 'accidentally' tripped the guy, and he'd ungracefully faceplanted, cursing and swearing. Unfortunately, they'd had to leave him in a respectable condition. Otherwise, Sonny imagined he would be in much worse shape than their little brother right now.

Clay reversed his actions, took a step backwards and once again sank down onto the couch. Everything about his demeaner was weary, like he couldn't muster the energy to argue.

Sonny swallowed roughly and plopped down beside him. He leaned forward, fidgeting for a moment while he worked out how to begin. "Ah, fuck," he muttered eventually. He'd never been good with words – that was the kid's department. He levelled Clay with a remorseful look. "I've been trying to work out how to apologize to you, for being a complete jerk this past month or so. But I'm coming up blank on the right thing to say." He shook his head, annoyed with himself. "I've been an idiot," he breathed. "And I'm damned sorry for it."

Clay didn't meet his gaze, just kept staring at the floor. For a moment Sonny was worried he'd have the apology rejected – which would have been completely understandable.

But Clay eventually met his eyes, twitched a tired half-smile. Nodded slowly. "You have been a bit of a bitch," he agreed.

Sonny felt a weight lift from within him, Clay's unspoken forgiveness lightening his load. He allowed a slight smile of his own. Yeah, he'd been pretty awful. "I have no excuse," he admitted. "I was hurting, after things …" he trailed off, taking a moment to double check they were alone. Once satisfied, he continued. "After things fell apart with Lisa."

Clay chewed his lip.

"I should have told you about me and her from the get-go." Sonny genuinely regretted not having let his brother in on what was going on. It had caused a rift of its own, and he could tell Clay had been hurt by the lack of trust. In the end, Clay had figured it out. Damn that kid and his smarty-smart brain. "If I'd been honest with you, I wouldn't have felt so alone when things went to shit. And I wouldn't have lashed out at you the way I did. It was a really crappy thing to do."

Clay made a steeple with his hands, leaned forward with elbows on his knees. "I understand why you didn't tell me," he said after a moment of thought.

Sonny shook his head. "Don't make it right," he argued. "You're my best friend. We've been to hell and back together. I should have told you."

Clay didn't argue, just offered another slightly sad half-smile. "All good, man."

But Sonny didn't feel like it was all good. Apologizing was the first step. It would take time to properly make this right. "I should've been more supportive of you and Rebecca, as well," he added. Vic's words came back to him, and his gut twisted. Clay's answer to his next question would reveal if the kid was indeed ready to trust him again. "You two seem like a good fit. You really like her, don't you."

And there it was, the briefest flicker of a shadow across Clay's features once again.

Sonny really hated that Lopez had been right.

Clay let out a shaky breath, huffed slightly. His gaze drifted momentarily to the ceiling. "I _did_ really like her," he said, tone broken around the edges.

Sonny hesitated, ricocheting between appropriate responses. It didn't feel right to admit that she'd seemed a little high-strung, and that he'd had his doubts about her. Clay didn't need I-told-you-so's, or gruff jokes, or any of Sonny's usual offerings. His brother was hurting. Reaching out a hand, Sonny settled for patting Clay on the back, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry, man," he said. And damn, he meant it. Clay deserved to be happy, to find someone special who wouldn't skip out on him. Sonny wanted that for the kid, perhaps even more than he wanted it for himself.

Clay rubbed a hand over his eyes – which were suspiciously moist.

"We good?" Sonny said after another moment.

Clay met his gaze, nodded. "We're good," he reassured, holding out a fist to bump.

Sonny didn't hesitate.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs grabbed their attention. Turning, they saw Trent approaching, looking slightly flustered. He halted once he caught sight of them staring at him from the couch.

"Thought I'd better come check on you," the medic said, eyes on Clay. "Sonny was meant to, but it's been a while and I was starting to wonder if he'd got side-tracked." A steady glare was cast toward the Texan.

Sonny huffed a laugh, swatting the look aside. "You can un-bunch your panties, Trent. Clay here has taken his meds like a good little boy, don't you worry. We were just having a chat."

Trent looked between the two of them, narrowing his gaze, hands on hips.

He reminded Sonny of his old Aunt Lou-Ellen Quinn; a strict woman, who got herself into a wild flap about the smallest things. Wisely, he bit his tongue instead of sharing the comparison out loud.

"I'm good," Clay assured, pushing slowly up from the couch. "I'm going to bed. I'll wake you if I need anything."

Trent watched Clay move, returning the muttered goodnight as the younger man passed by.

Sonny stepped up beside Bravo Four, raised a brow. "He ain't made of glass, you know," he stated under his breath.

Trent held his retort. Sighed instead, nodded slightly.

Sonny clapped his brother on the shoulder. They had all been on edge with Clay ever since Manila, but their boy was a grown-ass, bad-ass man. And perhaps they all needed to back off a little with their over-protectiveness of him. "Quit worrying so much."

Trent turned, glancing in the direction of the stairs. "Worrying is part of my job, you idiot."

Sonny rolled his eyes. "He'll be fine." He would personally see to it.

Clay's head would heal. And, more importantly, so would his heart.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

**One week later **

Raindrops streaked the kitchen window, and Clay blinked out at them, eyes unfocused, half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. Bravo weren't required on base today, or tomorrow for that matter, and Clay found himself in a daze, drifting aimlessly around his apartment with no real drive to do anything.

Absently, he scratched at the gash on his forehead. It was healing nicely but was itching as it scabbed. Trent had given him a monumental lecture on leaving it alone.

He felt the corner of his lip twitch into a fond smile at the thought of their motherly medic. Trent was a good egg. He needlessly carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he cared a whole hell of a lot for his brothers, and so Clay would put up with his fussing. The concern came from a place of love, and that was still a novelty in Clay's life.

Knock – knocky – knock – knock –

Clay twisted to blink at his front door.

Knock – knock.

Only one person knocked like that. Every time.

He placed his coffee cup down with a clunk, and made his way towards the door. With a sigh, he untwisted the lock and pulled it open.

Sonny leaned against the doorframe, chewing a toothpick. "Wow," he breathed, taking in Clay's disheveled appearance. "Not really living up to your name there, GQ." He leaned in, sniffing. "You stink."

Clay sniffed one of his armpits. Scowled. Went to close the door.

Sonny stopped it with the toe of his boot, leaned down and snagged a six pack of Clay's favorite beer from where he'd placed it on the floor, held it up. "You know I love you," he countered.

Clay quirked a lip, re-opened the door. "What's the occasion?" He asked, stepping aside.

Sonny lingered in the doorway, shrugged casually. "Can't I come see my little bro?"

Clay arched a suspicious brow.

Sonny cracked a grin, held up his hands. "Okay, okay," he caved. "There's a game on. I didn't feel like watching it alone."

Clay returned the smile. He'd known there was a game on but hadn't felt like watching it solo either. He'd thought about heading to Sonny's, but everything felt hard today, and he'd not even managed to get dressed.

Sonny went to step through the doorway, paused with an "Oh -" and instead reversed back out into the hall, holding up a finger. "And I brought you this." He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a black guitar case, which he handed to Clay.

Clay froze, eyes going between Sonny and the guitar. He opened his mouth, found no words, closed it again.

Sonny filled the silence. "I asked the guy in the store which one was best for classical guitar. He recommended this one. I hope it's okay."

Clay reached out with slightly trembling fingers, breath caught somewhere in his throat – mind caught somewhere in the past when Brian had been the one at his door, a similar gift in hand. He took the weight of the case from Sonny, and together they stepped into the room.

Placing it on the couch, Clay flipped open the clasps and raised the lid - his heart pounding and a lump in his throat.

Sonny closed the door, then stood beside him, shifting uncomfortably. "It okay?"

Clay swallowed against his constricting throat and blinked hot tears from his lashes. For a moment his voice didn't work, and he had to fish for it. His eyes darted to Sonny's. "It's, uh …" he cleared his throat, carefully lifted the guitar from its case. It wasn't a cheap brand. Clay blew out a shaky breath. "It's amazing," he finally found his voice. "But I can't take this. It would've cost you a fortune."

Sonny smacked him lightly in the back of his head. "Zip it, Goldilocks." His tone was no-nonsense. And then he said, more gently. "Hearing you play, man, I was speechless. That sort of talent can't be lost. It's a part of you."

Clay took the guitar in his lap as he sat down on the couch. He allowed his fingers to test the strings.

"And besides," Sonny added, as he waltzed over to the kitchen counter to set the beers down. "I threw away the docket. I can't take it back."

Clay pinned him with a look. Sometimes, Sonny reminded him way too much of Brian. The two of them would have got along, he thought with equal measures of warmth and sadness.

Drawing a steadying breath, Clay allowed his fingers to pluck at the strings, feeling the sound resonate through him. Sonny was right - music was a huge part of him. And he'd missed it. A lot.

"I don't know what to say," Clay admitted, stilling his fingers, his tone weighed with emotion.

Sonny offered a smile. Popped open two beers. "Don't need to say anything," he stated genuinely, bringing one of the bottles over to Clay. He paused, biting his lip for a moment. "Just, do me a favor, would you?"

Clay shuffled over as his brother plopped down on the couch beside him.

"If anything happens to me," Sonny instructed soberly, kicking off his boots and propping his feet on the coffee table. "Promise me you wont smash the damn thing. Because I will haunt you from the grave, swear to God."

Clay released a splinter of a laugh, but there was no humor in in. He inhaled jaggedly, offering a slow nod of agreement.

"Think of it as a gift," Sonny said, taking a swig of his beer and pulling a face. "Not just from me, but from your buddy Brian as well."

Once again tears threatened, stinging the corners of Clay's eyes.

Sonny muttered a curse about wanky, foreign beer. His gaze darted to Clay. "How do you drink this shit?"

Clay laughed again, this time more genuinely. "Want something else? I've got other beer in the fridge."

But Sonny shook his head, braced for another sip. "I'm no quitter," he stated. "I just like to complain."

"Yeah you do," Clay agreed, patting his brother on the knee.

Sonny leaned forward and grabbed the TV remote, flicking it on. "Game starts in fifteen minutes," he said. "Just enough time for you to shower."

Clay frowned, sniffed himself again.

Sonny didn't take his eyes from the TV screen. "Dude, I'm sitting a foot away from you. You smell. Go shower."

Clay raised a brow, gently placed the guitar back in its case. "Our marriage is obviously back on track," he groused. "You sound like a nagging wife."

Sonny pinned him with a look. "If we were married, I'll have you know I would most definitely be the one wearing the pants."

"Some nagging wives wear pants," Clay shot back, pushing up from the couch just in time to avoid the punch that came his way.

"Go shower," Sonny ordered, forcing down another sip of his beer.

Clay's lip twitched as he moved towards his bathroom. "Yes ma'am." A cowboy boot caught him in the back of the knee, nearly sending him sprawling, just before he made it inside the door.

Once in the safety of the small room, he clicked the door closed and leaned against it for a moment.

His thought over the past few weeks, of choosing to stand by his brothers instead of following the path Rebecca had pushed him towards. He thought about her departure from his life, and the hole she'd left behind. Somehow, mending the rift between himself and Sonny had healed the wound she'd inflicted as well.

Sonny's gesture with the guitar, him knowing that Clay could use company today – it was a reminder of how lucky he was.

Clay felt like he'd made a hell of a lot of mistakes in his life. But he knew beyond a doubt that finding his way to Bravo, and his relationship with his brothers, was the one thing he'd truly got right.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

**Thanks so much for reading :) **


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